


Garbage rape apologia

by Adakillszombies



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Abuse, Domestic Violence, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape, Rape Apologia, Stephen Bonnet redemption (because we need more redemption stories about abusive white dudes lolsob), Suicidal Thoughts, rape to romance (why isn't this a thing? oh wait i know why), woman forced to cure abuser with her love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:47:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27200038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adakillszombies/pseuds/Adakillszombies
Summary: Departs from the Outlander TV show after the episode "Wilmington". To save Roger, Brianna agrees/is forced to accompany Stephen Bonnet on the Gloriana, in Roger's stead. "Romance" ensues.
Relationships: Stephen Bonnet/Brianna Randall Fraser MacKenzie
Comments: 22
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for whole fic: rape, abuse, rape apologia, mental illness, suicidal thoughts
> 
> Because I'm a bad person and a hypocrite, I am writing this story wherein Stephen Bonnet stops raping Brianna and they fall in love. For some reason, I can't stop obsessing over Stephen Bonnet, and since there aren't many Stephen Bonnet fics out there already, I've started writing this for my own gratification. Not sure how long I'll keep it up - I guess until I'm too disgusted with myself to continue and/or I lose interest in Stephen Bonnet's repulsive self. Bonnet will be mean and violent to start with, but there will be no more raping (apart from graphic descriptions of past raping). Also, his Irish accent will be weird and inconsistent and often irritating, because that's how it is on the TV show and I love me some gross TV show Bonnet.
> 
> Some small parts of this are based on my own experience so I'm not completely talking out my arse, just FYI. But historical stuff on the other hand will be entirely inaccurate and unresearched, because garbage misogynistic rape apologia doesn't deserve historical accuracy.
> 
> I'm just gonna leave this here: although I do believe that people can redeem themselves after doing terrible things, it should never be the obligation of women who have been abused (or in fact, any victims of abuse) to be involved in that process. Stockholm syndrome isn't romantic or sexy. This is pure gross fantasy coming from some dark and disturbed place i dunno wtf. This is what happens I guess when we all get taught to love toxic masculinity.

**North Carolina, 1769**

Bree woke up to light streaming in the windows. She felt peacefully blank for a moment, as she often did first thing in the morning. Then she shifted, wincing at the discomfort coming from several different parts of her anatomy at once, and the memories of the night before rushed back to her, at which she curled into a ball, shuddering and pulling the sheet over her head. She felt dirty and ruined, just as everyone else would think of her, now. She felt branded and empty.

Although she had scrubbed herself raw the night before, she felt as though the inside of her thighs were still sticky – with blood, and sweat, and worse. She was abruptly acutely aware of that part of her he had assaulted. Like it was an alien part of her now that no longer belonged, or something diseased that was pumping out poison to the rest of her body. Panicking, she uncurled slightly, and reached a shaking hand down her belly – only to lose her courage and yank her hand back. She gulped, closed her eyes, and then roughly shoved her hand down again, between her legs, resting it upon her mound. Gasping, she patted herself gently, hardly daring to believe that everything felt as it always had. She had almost expected to find a jagged wound, or something hideously swollen and pulsating.

This stocktaking exercise calmed her somewhat. Bree’s physical state was, after all, not much altered from how it had been before last night. She was a little bruised, a little battered inside and out, but she had no obvious – and no lasting – wounds. As for her mental state… well, at least no one could tell she was broken, simply by looking at her.

Bree turned to her side to look for Lizzie, and to her relief her companion was not in bed. Bree sat up slowly, trying not to think about the burning between her legs – she wasn’t even sure if it was real or imagined. Shakily, she made her way to the basin, which had been filled with clean water, a fresh cloth placed next to it. She rubbed herself over and over, from head to foot, silent tears streaming unnoticed down her face. Finally, she looked down at her bright pink body, the pain from her tender skin bringing her some relief. She dressed in new clothes, and made her way slowly to the door, feeling like an old woman as she carefully put one foot in front of the other. As she grasped the door handle, her heart fluttered with anxiety, and she pressed herself against the door, straining for long minutes to hear anything in the hall beyond.

What got her moving in the end was thinking that Lizzie could return at any minute, with her concerned eyes and her anxious questions. So Bree made herself push the door open, and stepped out into the unsettling open space. She heard talking and laughter coming from the bar, where people would be eating breakfast, and she paused at the top of the stairs. She could hardly bear the thought of seeing another person ever again, and she was terrified of the prospect of another brutal encounter with a stranger. However, she would need to brave the crowded bar if she was to ask after Roger. She was driven with more urgency than ever to find him, and to make things right between them… although she now cravenly desired him, not for the love she felt for him, but for the protection he represented. She tried to imagine falling into his arms, and having the soft, warm feelings for him that had flooded through her before. But instead she felt numb, struggling to imagine wanting to be touched by anyone, even Roger. Even her mother.

As she pushed herself to descend the stairs, the voices grew louder.

“I appreciate that, Captain, but I intend to stay here”.

Bree’s heart swooped in every direction – that was Roger’s voice! At the bottom of the stairs now, she hovered just shy of the doorway, anxious to go to him, but wanting to wait for this “Captain” to leave before she approached.

“So **,** all was well wit your lass, den? I told yer ter be sure she was worth it ‘uh?”

“Captain knows best.”

“Indeed ‘e dos. **”**

Chills ran up and down Bree’s spine, and she bent over, one hand clutching her waist and the other clamped over her mouth. She knew that voice. It was the same voice she had last heard last night, as she lay dazed and bleeding, remarking in a cheerful conversational tone on her virginal status. “ _Oi’ve ‘ad livelier rides… Oi didn’t tink yer might be a virgin. But dat wus yer first time wasn’t it? Oi’m honoured, ter be sure._ ”

As Bree relived that moment in her head, the loathsome voice continued, heavy with satisfaction “… ‘specially when it combs to women.”

The bar patrons all chuckled knowingly, and she imagined that they were laughing at her, leering. She felt vulnerable, as though she had been stripped bare before the room. “

“But, yer lass’ll ‘ave ta wait fer now sailor. Because ye’ll be combin’ wit us to Philadelphia.”

Roger continued blithely on, completely unaware of the context of the other man’s words, “Uh, no. I told you I needed to find my way to Wilmington.”

“Aye, you did. An’ I told you it was but one of our ports on the way… Oh. Yer weren’t tinking you’d fahrsake oehs, abandon yer duties before our journey’s end? Sohm more sage advice fahr you dere, Mr MacKenzie. Me men do as they please when they’re ashore. But if they are naht aboard when de time combs to set sail, they often find themselves missing more dan deir wages. I ‘ave friends in dis town. I’d sooner see you lose a lass dan a lemb.”

There was a long silence, through which Bree held her breath.

“A’right den”, that voice said breezily, and she heard a chair scraping as he stood. Then she heard the heavy metallic clunk of a pistol being retrieved from the table – another sound she recalled from the night before. This set the hairs on the back of her neck on end, and she stumbled into the room, terrified that Roger was about to be murdered on her account.

As it turned out, the Irishman was simply adjusting the pistol in his belt as he made to leave. Bree took him in as she backed away again, wanting to return to the relative safety of the darkened doorway. The villain was not yet looking in her direction, but still had his eyes on Roger, and a mildly self-satisfied smile on his flexible features, his gray eyes hooded. He pushed his dirty blond locks out of his face with one hand, exposing more of his ragged scar, and placed a black tricorn hat on his head with his other hand.

Roger, apparently in no immediately danger after all, stood quietly, looking defeated. The other occupants of the room – large, dirty men, every one of them – wore a variety of expressions from annoyed, to entertained, to alert. All were focused on the drama, but the 5 or 6 men closest to Roger and the “Captain” looked the most serious; presumably, other men in his crew, ready to intervene if needed.

Then Roger’s roving eyes alighted on Bree, who had not yet succeeded in making her getaway, and his face transformed from defeated to relieved. “Brianna! H’oh Brianna!” he breathed out, his voice breaking, as he made his way to her in a few large strides. He tried to take her in his arms, but she stepped back involuntarily, hunching her shoulders.

Immediately, the soft look in his eyes turned to contempt, “You’re not still mad about our wee spat yesterday! When it’s I who was disrespected in the public street! I don’t believe this. I’ve come all this way, I’ve nearly got myself killed for you – twice! And now you’re pushing me away again! An’ I came back for you after everything, I really am a fool.”

“No, Roger!” Bree said steadily, fighting to keep her chin up, and her eyes dry, stepping as close to him as she could bear, “No, that’s not – just give me a minute to explain, please!”

“You put her in her place man!” someone yelled, while another followed up with “aw, don’t be too ‘arsh with the puir lassie!”. But all the shouted advice was drowned out by a mocking Irish voice, “Oh-ho!”. Bree and Roger both jerked their heads in the direction of the voice’s owner. The man himself was slouching with his weight on one leg, his head cocked, and he looked fit to burst with the dreadful knowledge shared by him and Brianna. His expression equally lewd and delighted, he enquired “Dis… dis is yer lass den?”

Bree looked at the ground, mortified, her face hot and her eyes stinging.

Roger was simply confused, and offended by the tone, “What business is it of yours? What are you implying?”

Her head jerking up again against her will, Bree stared at her tormentor, her eyes screaming, unable to look away but unable to say anything at all. This was the moment that everyone would mock and revile her, the moment that Roger would pull away in disgust.

The man flicked his eyes in Bree’s direction, before leering once more, “Oh nuttin’ at all… just that I’m surprised ter see soech a lovely lass wit de likes o’ you.”

The bar roared with laughter, and Roger flushed with anger and embarrassment. “I’m not leaving with you”, he said quietly.

“Waht wus that?” asked the Irishman, his eyes narrowing, “I tink I must ha’ misheard ye.”

A low rumble of discussion started, as men showed their appreciation for the turn the morning’s entertainment had taken, some placing bets on how it would end. The Irishman’s associates tensed for action.

“I said I’m not leaving”, Roger repeated, forcefully this time. He glanced at Bree before stepping in front of her. “Even if she doesn’t want me anymore, I’ll not leave her here alone. She’ll have my protection as long as she needs it.”

The Irishman smirked and shared a confiding look with Bree, “Well, they do say it’s better late dan never uh?”

Bree pulled her gaze away abruptly, her mouth twisting with distaste and fear.

“’Smuch as I admire yer sentiment, the lass will have to manage as best she can,” he said in an exaggeratedly sympathetic tone, which switched to menacing as he continued “… unless yer’ve decided ta trade dat lemb for de privilege of ’escortin’ ‘er?”

“No, please!” Bree interrupted. She turned to Roger, and made herself grasp the material of his sleeve in a show of affection, “Roger, I _do_ want you, of course, I love you.“ Then she turned her attention back to the other man, “If you’ve any heart at all, please just let us be. We must be leaving here urgently.” She felt that the man must surely recognize that he owed her Roger’s freedom, at the very least.

“Ah, now,” he said, placing a hand on his heart, “yer words move me darlin’, they do.” He cocked his head again and the corners of his mouth pulled down in a clownish show of misery. Then he narrowed his eyes craftily, and tipped his head back to look down his nose at her “but where ye be headed in such a rush, uh?”

Bree heard Roger growling, and saw him tense. She tugged on his sleeve to try to warn him against talking back again. As casual as the Irishman’s request sounded, she sensed that they would get no further without responding, and that he could turn violent again in a flash if they tried to withhold anything he wanted. Anything, she repeated to herself, gulping.

So although she nearly gagged at the prospect of sharing personal details with this man – of even continuing to converse with him – she answered him, her voice shaking only slightly, “We will make for River Run. Jocasta Cameron is my great aunt, and she may know where I can find my parents. I have urgent news for them.”

The Irishman was at first nodding along with her, but then shook his head as she finished, “well, it’s like dis yer see, I can’t just be lettin’ me men wander off whenever they take a fancy to a pretty lass. Word would get around. That’s bad fer business. Oi’ll tell you what Oi’ll do though, I have a way ter make ev’ry one ‘appy.”

The Irishman stepped closer to them suddenly, stopping next to Roger. He was a shorter man than Roger, by a hair’s breadth, she noted, but his powerful frame and confident manner made him seem the larger man. “Yer man here,” he began, and he grinned, putting his arm around Roger’s shoulders, “he can take yer message to yer ould auntie. And oi’ll take you abahrd in his place, as one o’ me crew. That way, Oi’ll not be a man – sorry, sailor – down, and ‘e’ll not have ter wurry ‘imself about yer protection while he’s ahn de road.” He nodded in satisfaction as thought he truly had solved all their problems.

“Bree, no!”, Roger struggled in the other man’s suddenly firm grip on his shoulders.

Bree’s mind whirled frantically. A mere day before she would have had no doubt she was willing to sacrifice herself for Roger – just as he would surely sacrifice himself for her. Now, however, the prospect of putting herself back in this man’s clutches, of submitting to horrors too many to imagine at the hands of him and his crew, horrors that she had now learned to fear like never before…. she was struck dumb with terror, and stepped back into the solid doorframe, lightheaded and shaking.

“A’right,” said the Irishman, looking at her while manhandling Roger into a chair. He shrugged, “so it’s to be de lemb then.” He made as if to pull his dagger from his belt.

“Alright!” Roger was yelling as he struggled under the hands of, now, several of the Irishman’s comrades, “Alright! I’ll rejoin your crew”, and he shot an agonized glance at Bree.

“Yer offer is not accepted,” responded the other man coolly, “what good ter me is a man who’d fahrsake first his Captain, and then ‘is lass.” Then he turned towards Bree, looking at her speculatively, one eye brow raised.

As Bree remained pressed against the door frame for a moment longer, he grew impatient, and huffed out gruffly “Oi give yer me word, no ‘arm will come to yer.”

Not believing him, but unable to let him mutilate Roger before her eyes, Bree found her voice. “Yes” she rasped. The man impatiently gestured for her to speak up, and she cleared her throat and tried again, “Ok, I’ll come with you”.

The man threw his arms up and grinned, glancing around to invite everyone to join him in his merriment, “Excellent! Welcome aboard lass!”

He then took a step towards her, making as if to take her by the arm. At this, Bree pushed back into the doorway so suddenly that she lost her purchase and nearly fell through it before catching herself. The Irishman rolled his eyes, making a face and then gesturing, in a mocking and almost courtly way, for her to go ahead of him.

“No Brianna!” Roger was out of the chair, and in her face, “Don’t you realise what he wants you for? How can you give yourself away like this? What’s to become of _us_ , after he’s finished with you? If there’s even anything left of you?”

Despite him naming her very own fears, Bree felt unaccountably angry with Roger for his condescension. But before she could respond, the Irishman took matters into his own hands. She felt a strong arm snake around her waist and pull her up against a large, rock hard body, smelling of sweat and alcohol. The sensation so strongly reminded Bree of the night before, that all logical thought left her and she fought him with everything she had once more, scratching and spitting and writhing every which way.

“bah! Be _still_ woman!” he growled in her ear, the sensation of his hot breath on her face only increasing her struggles. That is, until she heard a click and felt cold metal pressed against her temple. At that, she slumped back against him, half frightened that he would pull the trigger… and half not caring if he did.

“It’s loike this yer see,” the Irishman addressed himself to Roger now, “she’s not giving herself ta me – I’m takin’ ‘er. I expect yer’d rather she left wit me alive, than stayed ‘ere dead wit you?”

As the man pulled her backwards, towards the exit, Roger stood with his hands outstretched placatingly, not daring to make another move. He looked at her pleadingly, and promised “I’ll find you Brianna, I’ll come for you, I promise.”

“No Roger,” she answered firmly, “you warn my parents!”

Then, with a grunt, the brute barged the door open with a shoulder and hauled Bree outside, his men following. Once out, he dropped his hold around her waist and put his pistol away. Then he roughly grabbed her arm and yanked her towards the docks. He glanced back at her, asking in a conversational way, “so what shall we call you den lass? I ‘spose we ‘ave yet ter be formally introduced, though we’ve got to know each other plenty well. De name’s Stephen Bonnet. That’s Captain Bonnet to you.”

Brianna stumbled along behind him, not trying to resist, but not particularly trying to keep up either. His hold on her arm became more insistent, “keep up, would yer!”

She sighed and yanked her arm out of his hold, picking up her pace, while carefully staying just out of his arm’s reach. “My name is Brianna Fraser. That’s Ms Fraser to you,” she responded without looking in his direction, trying not to feel cowed.

“Ah! Brianna Fraser! That’s a loehvly name. Well ‘Ms Fraser’, this ‘ere beau’iful vessel’ll be your home for the next wee whoile.” He slowed to a stop and swept his arm towards a large ship, the “Gloriana” she noted.

“And am I to be permitted to bring my belongings with me to my new ‘home’” she asked, striving to sound imperious rather than pleading. She wasn’t sure she’d achieved it, as she felt her chin wobble. But she needed the things she’d brought with her from the modern world.

Bonnet looked annoyed, and rolled his eyes “Fine,” he signaled one of the sailors “go an’ ask for Ms Fraser’s things at the inn would yer”.

“Wait!” Bree interjected, thinking frantically that the sailor might run into Lizzie and then drag her into these dreadful circumstances as well – the very thing that Lizzie had joined her to avoid. “Let me write a letter to the innkeeper, and they can arrange for my things to be delivered.”

“No need,” Bonnet dismissed her, “Danny’ll do fer it.” The sailor in question nodded at Bonnet at turned back.

“I changed my mind! I don’t need anything!” Bree cried out, starting after the man, Danny.

He ignored her and kept walking, while Bonnet caught up and slipped both arms around her waist, holding her firmly and setting his chin on her shoulder, so that he could speak directly into her ear, “Oi’ve been very patient wit yer Ms Fraser. You don’t want ter make me regret it.” She felt the threat in his silky voice and hard muscled arms, and she nodded carefully to indicate her understanding, not trusting her voice to speak. 

“Comb now then,” and he removed his arms from her waist to place his hands on her shoulders, spinning her back around to face the ship, and then marching her up the gangplank in front of him.

Sailors were crawling all over the vessel, making ready to set sail, and they whooped and whistled as they noticed the Captain had brought a woman on board. “Now now!” Bonnet growled back good naturedly, “Oi’ve given Ms Faser ‘ere moi wahrd that no 'arm'll comb to 'er ahn board, so don’t make me a loier now will yer?” although his tone remained light, it was clear that he was giving an order, and Bree thought to herself that any man who ignored it would be a fool.

“Oi intend to take very good care of ‘er” he added, suggestively, and his men guffawed appreciatively.

He continued to steer her through the bowels of the ship, still with one hand resting firmly on her shoulder. Occasionally he pointed out areas of interest, or shared an anecdote about the men they saw. “That there is Colin, ‘es our cook,” he pointed out a large heavyset man, with thin graying hair and a jowly face, who came staggering out of a doorway into the passage they were in, carrying an evidently heavy wooden box. Hearing his name, Colin looked up instinctively, before hastily turning back the way he came, his shoulders hunched up. As the man had turned his face in their direction, Bree had seen that, where his left ear should have been, there was simply a hole.

“Funny story, Colin talked ‘is way on board as a cook, but ‘is very first meal made ‘alf the boys sick. He admitted that he was naht as qualified fer ‘is position as ‘e’d made out.”

Bree felt a shiver run up her spine, as she didn’t like where this story was going.

“Oi flipped a coin ter see if ‘e would live, and de loehck was wit 'im. So I only took ‘is ear off an’ asked ‘im to cook ‘imself a noice meal wit it, for practice. Oi watched ‘im finish it ahll, an’ oi told’im oi wanted to see whether ‘e enjoyed it. If naht, den I would assume ‘e’d not improved in ‘is craft, and we’d ‘ave to let ‘im go. Rarely ‘ave I seen a man enjoy a meal so well,” he sighed wistfully, as though he really believed this was a jolly story about times past, “’e’s not made a bad meal since, mind – oi credit meself wit ‘elping ‘im to reach ‘is true potential.”

Realising she had fallen into the hands of someone who was not just a rapist, but enjoyed mutilating and tormenting people, Bree felt a dull sickness starting in her stomach, knowing they must be nearing their destination and dreading what he was about to do to her. Again.

And then Bonnet was opening a door ahead of them and pushing her into the next room. He followed and closed the door quietly behind them. Bree noticed absent mindedly that the cabin was roomy, well appointed, and flooded with natural light from the large windows wrapping around from one side of the ship to the other. This was clearly the captain’s quarters at the back – the stern, she corrected herself – of the ship. Most of the room was furnished as a living room and office, with a large desk and several luxurious looking armchairs. Peaking out from behind a partition to one side, she could just make out a surprisingly large bunk – smaller than a standard double, but a bit larger than a single, she estimated.

All this observation could only distract her so long from her growing fear, and noticing the bed brought it crashing down on her. She wrapped her arms around her frame and felt herself shivering, feeling woozy from the blood rushing to her head. She wondered if he would bother forcing her to the bed, or whether he would rape her on the floor, right then and there.

Her heartrate spiking, and her fear and hatred battling within her, she whirled around to face Bonnet. He looked at her with a curious expression, a strange secretive smile, his head cocked. Bree backed away slowly, hoping he wouldn’t notice that she was moving closer to a large decorative metal candlestick.

At the same time, Bonnet took a few cautious steps towards her. He held his hands out in a non-threatening gesture, continuing to smile smugly, his eyebrows raised as though surprised by her behavior. “Now, sweet’ahrt”, he cautioned, sensing that she was on the verge of action. He reached out one arm, slowly, as though to a wild animal.

… and then she was grabbing the candlestick from the table behind her, wrapping both hands around it, leaping forward, and swinging it in a wide arc towards his head, teeth gritted.

“WOAH” Bonnet bellowed, leaping backwards. He chuckled as she brandished the candlestick at him, swinging it back to be ready to bring it down again should he approach. “Don’t you touch me!” she spat, her teeth bared.

And yet he swaggered back towards her nonchalantly, wearing the same expression as he had the night before, when he had propositioned her. Although he was smiling, she could tell that he was also angry. She remembered his slap to her face when she had refused him, and her hands tightened on her weapon.

He stopped just outside her reach, and held his hand out for the candlestick. She hesitated, and he gestured impatiently. “Comb now”, he spoke evenly, his mouth flattening and his eyes fierce. He waited only a brief moment before stepping sharply forward, into her space. His hand shot out and grasped the candlestick before she had even registered his movement. He wrenched it from her grasp impatiently and threw it behind him, staring at her face all the while, daring her to make another move.

Bree dared. Her palms smarted from the friction as her weapon had been pulled from her grasp, but she clenched her fists anyway, and swung them haphazardly, trying to connect with any part of him. Bonnet stepped back nimbly, grasped her flailing wrists, and spun her around. Now he held her tightly, with her arms crossed in front of her and her hands clasped firmly by her sides.

“Are yer quite finished now Ms Fraser?” he growled in her ear, “D’you know what ‘appens to members o’ me crew who threaten me on moi own ship? No – scratch that – it’s never ‘appened before.”

“Do you rape them too?” she shot back, venomously.

“Mmph”, he grunted, sounding startled and a bit amused, “Oi take yer point. But…” he relaxed his grip somewhat, and she felt him leave some space between their bodies, without yet releasing her hands. “But… Oi’ve sworn yer’ll naht come to any ‘arm. An oi’ll naht ‘ave yer swingin’ things at me ‘ead while yer stayin’ ‘ere wit me.’

There was a knock at the door, and Bonnet pulled away, Bree sagging in relief. She stayed planted in the middle of the room, facing the windows, as she heard the door open. “Ah Danny, good man, me thanks, and oi’m sure Ms Fraser is most grateful ta yer too.” Then Bonnet was strolling past her with her stuffed shoulder bag clutched in one hand and a bundle of her clothing held against his chest with the other arm.

He dropped everything on the bed, and Bree felt the floor move under her feet as she recognised the skirts on the top of the bundle. Then she stumbled, realizing that the floor was actually moving, as some larger waves lapped the sides of the ship. Bonnet rushed back and caught her arm, steadying her, and then guided her to the bed.

“Stow these wherever you will … what’s this?” Bonnet trailed off as he lifted a white item of clothing, revealing a large bloody patch part way down the back of it, now drying and crusty, “huh, virgins’re so messy” he commented dismissively, before throwing it back on the pile of clothing.

Bree was overtaken by ice cold fury at this latest violation. First he had stolen intimate knowledge about her body, leaving her bloody and bruised, and now he had exposed this evidence of her pain and shame. The stinging between her legs flared again, and she felt everything he had done to her, body and soul. As though she was floating outside herself, she watched from afar as her hands reached out to seize her shoulder bag. Bonnet had turned to her and was saying something, but she could not seem to hear him over the rushing in her ears. She pulled out a box of matches, and without further ado, lit one and threw it on the pile of clothing. The bag and the box of matches fell from her numb fingers, and she glided back slowly, flames dancing in her eyes. The anger that had animated her drained away, and she felt nothing anymore.

Bonnet’s reaction would have been gratifying, if she had been in any state to notice. His comical surprise at her production of the matches turned to horror as he witnessed a roaring fire starting in the heart of his ship. He was frozen, gaping, for a brief moment, before he shouted, “for the love of DANU, Jayzus FUCK,” and frantically stripped the bed, folding the blankets and Bree’s clothing in on the fire. He then scooped up the whole smoky bundle, ran to a window, threw it open with one hand, and then flung the bundle into the waves. Wide eyed and panting, his face red from the heat of the flames, he stretched out his arms to clutch the window sill, and hung his head.

Bree watched this unfold, still feeling detatched. She should be frightened, she supposed. He would probably throw HER out the window next… if she was lucky enough to warrant such a quick disposal. But she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Bonnet finally straightened, calmly closing the window, tugging his neckscarf into place and sleeking his hair back behind his ears. He walked up to Bree slowly, and reached out to place his hands heavily on her shoulders. Leaning over her, his eyes searched hers, seeking to make contact - but her eyes remained unfocused. “Woman. The _feck_ was that? Are yer naht all there, is dat it? Yer certainly a handful, in more ways dan one uh?” at this, his right hand wandered from her shoulder to her breast. He softly ran the tip of his finger to the peak, before pulling his hand away and replacing it on her shoulder. He stepped closer, and brought his eyes to her face again, “Yer’d better not turn out to be more trouble dan yer worth.”

Bree simply looked over his beefy shoulder, admiring the sparkles of light coming off the sea in the distance.

Now Bonnet frowned, and brought a hand up to cup her left cheek, making her wince as he touched the tender skin where he had struck her the night before. “mph, this is gonna be a proper bruise in’t it.” He took her chin and turned her head for a better look. “Di’n’t tink I ‘it you so ‘ard. Certainly wasn’t moi ‘ntention ta mark yer.”

This incredible bullshit roused Bree somewhat from her inert state, and her mouth twisted with contempt. Then she returned to contemplating the view.

Bonnet took his hands off her at last and stepped back. “Well. Oi’ll leave yer ta settle in. Boht…” he bent down to collect the box of matches from the floor, “oi’ma take dis wit me, and later yer’ll be explainin’ ter me how you were after doin’ that jost now.” He wagged the box in front of her face emphatically, stared hard again into her eyes, and then left the room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Graphic sexual assault, mental illness, suicidal thoughts

His weight was on top of her, pressing her down as he fumbled between her legs. All her senses were assaulted by him, full of him only. The smell of his sweat in her nose. The rough feeling of his shaven face against her neck, his dirty blond hair falling before her eyes, his heavy breathing loud in her ears. The blood she tasted in her mouth was her own, however. She had stopped screaming, but now she began sobbing piteously as she felt something blunt and heavy brush her leg before nudging her folds. Bonnet rose up on his elbow and lent his weight on her, his arm across her chest, while his other hand held the top of the table for leverage. He lunged forward, seeking to seat himself in her, but Bree struggled once more, wriggling back slightly, and he slipped past her entrance. Grunting in frustration, he straightened slightly, drew his arm back from her chest, and slapped her perfunctorily, barely glancing at her face before refocusing on the task at hand. This time, he leaned not just his arm on her, but his whole body, keeping her still with his full weight. His arm freed, he moved it under her skirts, and grasped her naked thigh, painfully hard, spreading her legs further and holding her in place. Then he thrust forward again. This time, the head of his penis caught on her entrance, and he sighed in satisfaction, slowly easing himself forward so as not to lose his purchase again. Bree’s wails increased in pitch, and her thigh trembled in the man’s grasp as she tried desperately to wiggle away from the invasive sensation. He pressed forward and she felt her body give way to him. He grunted again, sounding surprised this time, and pulled back slightly before thrusting forward brutally. Bree screamed once more, feeling a searing hot sensation at her entrance, and a deep, dull pain as he bottomed out and hit something far inside of her. “uunnngh,” he groaned next to her ear, his hot, alcohol laden breath fanning across her face. He mouthed her neck sloppily and began a series of unrelenting thrusts, hitting that spot inside her each time, till she writhed – no longer seeking to escape, but in simple agony. She sobbed and groaned from pain and fear while he grunted with pleasure, filling her again and again. He suddenly straightened up, grabbed the table with both hands, and pushed up, into her with everything he had, stopping still as he bottomed out once more. A series of emotions flickered across his face as he held himself there, shuddering, and Bree realised he must have come inside her. He patted her leg and pulled out abruptly, creating a new tearing agony, and then a sensation of sloppy wetness in her folds and between her legs. She had never felt so miserable, physically uncomfortable, and disgusting in all her life. “There now,” he said gently, “yer’ll enjahy it mahre our next time. “NO!” Bree screamed–

…

She awoke in the bunk, her right arm and leg pressed against Bonnet’s hot skin as she lay on her back, her heart pounding. She had had this nightmare almost every night for the last two weeks – the entire time she had been on board the Gloriana so far. The worst part was, it wasn’t even a nightmare. It was exactly the way it had happened… right up until his chilling final promise. That part was new.

She sat up carefully, pulled up her knees, and wrapped her arms around them. There was a small amount of light leaking in through the windows, coming from a lantern on the deck above. She looked down at Bonnet, studying his relaxed face, his broad chest rising and falling, listening to his deep breathing and the occasional quiet snore. She thought to herself that it wasn’t surprising she would be disturbed by such dreams, when she was forced to sleep pressed against the very man who had attacked her. Oh, sure, for whatever reason he had not raped her again – yet. But he insisted that she share the bed with him at night. Bonnet would wear only a short pair of drawers to bed, and although Bree wore her longest nightgown with the most coverage, it would always end up rucked up over her knees, the baggy sleaves pushed up her arms, so that her bare skin brushed his.

They had just left the port in Philadelphia the morning before, having spent over a week there. Bree had no clear idea what Bonnet had spent his time doing, since she hadn’t been interested in asking what he was getting up to, and nor could she have witnessed his activities for herself, having barely left his bed. Bonnet had not exactly forbidden her from leaving his quarters, but she had felt as though he would disapprove of her poking her head above deck. Before Bonnet, the thought of someone trying to control her actions would have filled her with fury. In fact, she reflected that every fight she’d ever had with Roger had been due to his expectation that she would defer to his wishes… and her angry refusal to do so.

But now, the only emotions she ever experienced were apathy and fear. Sometimes she was too frightened of Bonnet to dare challenge his will (or what she imagined his will to be), while other times she didn’t care enough to bother with the conflict that would follow her defiance. So what if she couldn’t leave this room, what was there to see outside anyway? Where could she go? What would she do in this unfamiliar, violent world if she did somehow escape the ship? She felt that her life would only ever be the swaying, creaking ship and Bonnet’s insidious presence. Every now and then she would stir herself sufficiently to reach for some good thought, some bright promise in her future to look forward to. But she couldn’t imagine any way of freeing herself, physically or emotionally, and all she could see was endless days of fear and struggle and shame smashing into her over and over again like waves, so that she would never find her footing again.

As these dark thoughts crowded around her, Bree clawed at her throat, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. Panicking, her eyes shot to the detested figure tethering her to this grim reality. In her turmoil, she felt her mind casting about for any way out of the agony, irrational plans forming and then melting away as quickly as they had come to her. One thought stuck. If Bonnet was gone, then no one else would know what he had done to her. It would almost be as though it had never happened at all. She would be able to create a new persona for herself, become a person who had never been helpless and used and despoiled – and no one else would know any different. She would once again be the only person in the world who held such intimate knowledge about her own body.

She had never been a violent person, her compassion causing her to value the lives even of cockroaches that made her scream when they scuttled out of dark corners in her apartment back home. But the torment she was feeling made her illogical, made her cast about for any way out at all, no matter the cost.

So before she could think better of it, Bree lunged over Bonnet’s sleeping form to the ledge on his side of the bunk, snatched up his dagger that he always kept close at hand, and jerked it towards his jugular. She felt the very tip of it slide into his skin, but could not quite bring herself to make the final, lethal jab. Bree’s whole arm shook with fear and uncertainty. She gritted her teeth, trying to find the strength either to let him live or to kill him.

Gradually, the heavy silence of the room intruded on her inner struggle. She realised with dawning horror that Bonnet was no longer breathing deeply as he had been in sleep. She slowly moved her eyes from the dagger pressed to his neck, up to his face. Bonnet’s eyes were on hers. His face was expressionless.

The fresh flood of terror she felt caused her to press the dagger slightly deeper, a threat to stop him making any sudden movements. But his gaze remained steady, his expression unchanging. He looked almost bored. “Umhm”, he cleared his throat, which made his flesh press further into the dagger, drawing blood. Now he flicked his eyes down slightly, and she drew the dagger back ever so slightly, to allow him to speak.

“What’s de plahn, Ms Fraser?” he asked, sounding only mildly curious.

She frowned in confusion, thinking it was obvious.

He rolled his eyes, sighed, and then winced as his deep breath pressed his throat into the dagger once more. He elaborated on his question, “where d’yer plahn on roehning ahff to, once yer’ve slit moi throeht?”

Her logical mind started working again, and she chased after the thought. If she killed him, she would have to get off the ship – currently sailing the Atlantic, miles from land – without any of Bonnet’s men noticing either that Bonnet was dead, or that she was seeking to escape.

He saw her face turn thoughtful, and he prompted her again “yer’d naht tought dis trough befahre enactin’ yer grahnd murder scheme?”

“… it was spontaneous,” she admitted reluctantly.

She saw something flicker in his eyes, as though he found her admission interesting. “Well, far be it frahm me ta talk anyone ooeht o' sahme spahntaneous devilry.” And he flicked his eyes to the ceiling, a serene expression on his face, as though ready to die.

She had been tensing for a fight, but this apparent surrender caused her to relax in confusion, her hand drifting away from his neck ever so slightly.

Quick as a striking snake, Bonnet’s hand encircled Bree’s wrist, pulling her hand with the dagger away from their bodies. “Drop it” he said, squeezing her wrist and shaking it.

When she failed to drop the dagger at once, he rolled them so that Bree was now on her back, and he was sprawled across her, their hands entwined with the dagger now on the other side of the bunk. With his body weight immobilising her, he was able to transfer his left arm across their bodies, using it to hold her arm still while his other hand tore the dagger from her grip. Then he released her and sat back on his knees, straddling her waist, with the dagger held loosely in one hand.

He fixed her with a glare, his empty hand reaching down to grasp her shoulder, shaking her lightly. “Briahnna!”, he growled out, addressing her as such for the first time, “if yer so desire ta sleep elsewhere, per’aps oi cooehld lahck yer in de breg frahm now ahn uh?” He shook her once more when she failed to respond, before noticing she’d gone utterly limp beneath him, her eyes glazed.

Finding herself trapped beneath the monster of all her nightmares once more, his strong thighs trapping her body and his groin pressed against her belly, Bree had taken refuge again in apathy. She stared at the ceiling unseeing, waiting for it to be over. At least she would no longer be constantly wondering why he was holding back and when the next attack would come. As Bonnet pulled his hand from her shoulder, his rough fingers inadvertently pulled her nightgown askew, exposing the gentle swell of the very top of Bree’s breast. She flinched at the sensation, her eyes flickering back to life, fear in their depths as she looked up at Bonnet.

He huffed impatiently in response, rolling off her and replacing the dagger on its ledge. “If ever dere woehs a time yer needn’t fear me it’s now. By Danu woman, after dat crool awakenin’ me bahlls ‘ave retreated so fahr inta me bahdy oi don’ know if dey’ll ever be seen again.”

Then he shuddered theatrically, and added, sounding almost admiring, “Yer an’ ‘ahrrifyin’ woman.”

“If I’m horrifying, what does that make you?” asked Bree, her voice flat.

At this, Bonnet pushed himself up slightly on one elbow, to look down on her. “Oi’m yer worst noightmare. Yers, and e’ryone else’s too. Best yer’d naht forget it.”

Bree turned her head to meet his eyes, “I will _never_ forget it,” she responded, her voice shaking. In barely more than a whisper, she continued “I only wish I could.”

Satisfied with the direction their altercation had taken, Bonnet lay back down, elaborately turning his back on her, stretching and yawning, leaving the dagger where it was on its ledge. He settled back into sleep almost immediately. The man sure had style, Bree thought to herself, bitterly.

As she lay alone in the quiet darkness, the dark thoughts that had sent her into a tailspin returned. She sat up abruptly, and made a spontaneous decision to go above decks for the first time since she had arrived. Maybe a walk in the fresh air would clear her head and help her sleep.

Still dressed in just her robe, she scurried through the halls, the black thoughts chasing her, her heart pounding. She knew that, even though it was night, there would still be a number of sailors up carrying out their duties, and she tried to keep an eye out for them. Noticing the soft glow of lamp light coming from the kitchen, she turned at the last minute and pattered away in another direction. She thought she heard a sound from behind her as she hurried away, but she did not turn to look. Fleeing through the narrow corridors, up stairs and down ladders, she clung to the idea that if she could only get up top and breathe the fresh sea air, the panic squeezing her chest would let up, the misery roiling around her head would sink away, and she would feel free again. 

She ended up peeking over a trapdoor at the very stern of the ship, up a narrow set of steps. No one else was here, in this small empty space between the railing and stacked, tied down boxes covered in heavy canvas. She scrambled up the last few steps, rushed to the railings, and breathed deeply, willing peace to come.

But the sea air was no magic fix. Being on deck, surrounded by the endless dark sea, only reinforced how lost she was. She hung her head to cry, but could not summon any tears, the hopelessness battering her into insensitivity. She drew a ragged breath as broken thoughts came to her “… never get any better… escape … can’t live like this… can’t _live_ …” Shaking, she gripped the rails tighter, and slung one leg over them, staring into the black.

Bree made a half-hearted attempt to tell herself that this was wrong, that she should be stronger. But her urgent need to be free from the feeling that nothing would ever be good again was overpowering. She summoned her mother to mind, but her guilt at the pain she would cause only pushed her further towards the edge.

Then she thought of her father, Frank. This brought a mingled mess of warmth and grief to the surface. And a memory. The hopeless, joyless slump she had slipped into after Frank had died. The classes missed, the assessments failed. The concerned, shaking heads of Frank’s friends, of her mother. She remembered driving home in the dark, then driving on, past her front door. Speeding up, driving more recklessly as she turned corners at random. Thinking of Frank, wondering if this was how it had happened for him. 

It was for Frank’s sake that she had slowed, stopped the car, and phoned a friend to pick her up. It had taken real strength to pull her hands from the wheel, push the door open, and throw the keys away from her – and months of therapy to recognize that night for what it had been. Wonky brain chemicals and illogical negative thoughts, reinforced by mental habits that she hadn’t even realised she had fallen into.

Although it had only been a little more than a year since she had felt well enough to stop treatment, she had put the episode so firmly behind her that she rarely thought of it. Looking back in time and recognising her current self in that lonely girl roaming the streets with a death wish, she realised it had been a mistake to declare herself cured and move on so thoroughly. What had she learned about negative thoughts, and patterns of behaviour? She needed to be always resisting the old patterns and reinforcing the new.

Bree did not feel any better. She did not feel any less frantic and desperate for peace. But she realised now that the feeling was not real – or at least, not entirely real. It was not just an inevitable consequence of her trauma, or her dire circumstances. It was a product of her own mind. And she knew from experience that there could be good days again, if she worked at it.

With this realisation, she was struck with fear at how close she had come, again, to losing everything. She sent a grateful thought to Frank, for his memory that had saved her, again.

Now that she no longer wanted to throw herself from the railings, her position straddling them felt precarious in the extreme. She swayed with the motion of the ship, and leaned forward, clutching the railings more tightly.

“Briahnna!” growled a hated voice. She turned to see Bonnet stepping slowly and cautiously towards her, his hands held out as though in surrender, his eyes wide and urgent. “Comb now lahss”, he said with exaggerated calmness.

She curled her lip at him, thinking how helpless he looked. As if he could have stopped her throwing herself overboard, if that had still been her wish. And he was late to the party. She didn’t need rescuing now, at least not from herself.

Feeling an irresistible urge to put him in his place, she released the railings and sat up straight. His eyes widened.

Feeling almost gleeful, she swung her leg back over the railing, so that she was sitting on it, her back to the sea, her eyes challenging him.

Bonnet came to a complete stop. “Ms Fraser, please”, he urged. He looked peeved, though he was clearly trying to project calm.

Another swell made her swing back slightly, though she had her legs locked behind the railings and her grip never faltered. But Bonnet gasped and lunged forward at her movement, wrapping his arms around her upper body. “Don’ yer bloddy tink about it.” He hissed in her ear.

“Or what, you’ll kill me?” she laughed, and it felt good. He growled in frustration.

Bree placed her feet back onto the solid deck and pushed herself off the railings. Surprised, Bonnet withdrew slightly, and she took advantage of his movement to place her hand in the middle of his chest and push him away from her.

“I wasn’t going to do anything,” she scoffed at him. He raised a skeptical eyebrow, while Bree clenched her fists and her jaw, looking up at him defiantly. “You can rape me, _Captain_ ,” she said scornfully, “you can beat me,” and she put a hand to her face, where her bruise had been, “you can even…” she took a ragged breath, still fearing him and his plans for her, “… you can even kill me. But you can’t make me take my own life. _You can’t make me_ ” she almost shrieked at him.

Bonnet tossed his head and snorted at her, throwing his hands in the air. “Yer daft woman! Oi’m not after makin’ yer kill yerself or anyting loike it.”

“Because then you won’t be able to rape me again?” she snapped back.

“I told yer I’d not ‘arm yer! Dat wus a won-time bit o’ fun, there’d be no spahrt in it now.”

Bree _growled_ , her feeling of disgust so strong she felt like she needed to physically expel it. “Why then? Why did you take me with you? Why do you force me to share your bed when it makes me sick with loathing? Why am I here?”

Bonnet stepped back slightly, a smile tugging suddenly at his lips, his eyelids drooping craftily. “I’m a pirate Ms Fraser, first and foremost. I steal treasure.”

She snorted, “I’m hardly a treasure, Captain.”

“But yer wealthy aunt will surely beg ta differ,” he responded, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“My wealthy…? What? I barely mentioned her to you…”

“I’ve ‘ahrd de name befahr, oi know who Jocasta o’ River Roehn is. She’s got no heirs, an’ I reckon she’ll pay a pretty penny fer ye.” He grinned widely.

“so… I’m to be exchanged for ransom?” she asked, wonderingly.

“aye – so yer’ve no need to be actin’ so coy all de toime loike yer’ll be merdered in yer bed. Yer worth good money to me Ms Fraser. Why d’you tink oi risk loife an’ lemb ‘avin’ yer next to me as oi sleep?”

This was all too much for Bree, who couldn’t follow his logic at all, “I don’t know, why?”

“Well, many of me men ‘ave been wit me fer soehm toime, an’ dey know not ter cross me. Boeht dere are ahlways a fair few newbies. A loehvly woman like you – hell, any woman – is gonna tempt a man at sea. Oi don’ tink yer aunt – a woiley woman by ahll oi’ve ‘eard – will pay top dollar fahr scraps. Oi mean to keep yer whole.”

“But I’m not anymore-“

“Pfff, who cares if yer’ve had a man now - or even a few. It won’ stop yer dear auntie marryin’ yer off. As long as yer body and mind are ‘earty. An' truthfully, if I’d known ye were soehch a prize oi’d’ve kept it in me pants,” he sighed, “dat wus very nearly the dearest screw oi’ve ever ‘ad.” He eyeballed the railings, clearly referring to her near… fall.

Bree felt a mixture of indignant, and relieved. Powerful even. All unbeknownst to her, she’d had leverage all this time. His tolerance of various incidents suddenly made sense.

“Good,” she said, “I’d like nothing more than to be returned to my family and I’ll cooperate with you…” she looked at his smug smiling face and added, “so long as you cooperate with me.”


End file.
